I Would Blossom If I Were A

If I Could Have Two Things In One: The Peace Of The Grave, And The Light Of The Sun.

Upon This Gifted Age, In Its Dark Hour Falls From The Sky A Meteoric Shower Of Facts; They Lie Unquestioned, Uncombined. Wisdom Enough To Leech Us Of Our Ill Is Daily Spun, But There Exists No Loom To Weave It Into Fabric.

A Person Who Publishes A Book Appears Willfully In Public Eye With His Pants Down.

O World, I Cannot Hold Thee Close Enough!

A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.